cortege.
“I might easily see it was not the king,” said D’Artagnan;
“people don’t laugh so heartily when the king passes. Hola,
Bazin!” cried he to his neighbor, three-quarters of whose
body still hung out of the window, to follow the carriage
with his eyes as long as he could. “What is all that about?”
“It is M. Fouquet,” said Bazin, in a patronizing tone.
“And all those people?”
“That is the court of M. Fouquet.”
“Oh, oh!” said D’Artagnan; “what would M. de Mazarin say to
that if he heard it?” And he returned to his bed, asking
himself how Aramis always contrived to be protected by the
most powerful personages in the kingdom. “Is it that he has
more luck than I, or that I am a greater fool than he? Bah!”
that was the concluding word by the aid of which D’Artagnan,
having become wise, now terminated every thought and every
period of his style. Formerly he said, “Mordioux!” which was
a prick of the spur, but now he had become older, and he
murmured that philosophical “Bah!” which served as a bridle
to all the passions.
CHAPTER 18
In which D’Artagnan seeks Porthos, and only finds Mousqueton
When D’Artagnan had perfectly convinced himself that the
absence of the Vicar-General d’Herblay was real, and that
his friend was not to be found at Melun or in its vicinity,
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Dumas, Alexandre – Ten Years Later
he left Bazin without regret, cast an ill-natured glance at
the magnificent Chateau de Vaux which was beginning to shine
with that splendor which brought on its ruin, and,
compressing his lips like a man full of mistrust and
suspicion, he put spurs to his pied horse, saying, “Well,
well! I have still Pierrefonds left, and there I shall find
the best man and the best filled coffer. And that is all I
want, for I have an idea of my own.”
We will spare our readers the prosaic incidents of
D’Artagnan’s journey, which terminated on the morning of the
third day within sight of Pierrefonds. D’Artagnan came by
the way of Nanteuil-le-Hardouin and Crepy. At a distance he
perceived the Castle of Louis of Orleans, which, having
become part of the crown domain, was kept by an old
concierge. This was one of those marvelous manors of the
middle ages, with walls twenty feet in thickness, and a
hundred in height.
D’Artagnan rode slowly past its walls, measured its towers
with his eye and descended into the valley. From afar he
looked down upon the chateau of Porthos, situated on the
shores of a small lake, and contiguous to a magnificent
forest. It was the same place we have already had the honor
of describing to our readers; we shall therefore satisfy
ourselves with naming it. The first thing D’Artagnan
perceived after the fine trees, the May sun gilding the
sides of the green hills, the long rows of feather-topped
trees which stretched out towards Compiegne, was a large
rolling box, pushed forward by two servants and dragged by
two others. In this box there was an enormous green-and-gold
thing, which went along the smiling glades of the park, thus
dragged and pushed. This thing, at a distance, could not be
distinguished, and signified absolutely nothing; nearer, it
was a hogshead muffled in gold-bound green cloth; when
close, it was a man, or rather a poussa, the interior
extremity of whom, spreading over the interior of the box,
entirely filled it, when still closer, the man was
Mousqueton — Mousqueton, with gray hair and a face as red
as Punchinello’s.
“Pardieu!” cried D’Artagnan; “why, that’s my dear Monsieur
Mousqueton!”
“Ah!” cried the fat man — “ah! what happiness! what joy!
There’s M. d’Artagnan. Stop, you rascals!” These last words
were addressed to the lackeys who pushed and dragged him.
The box stopped, and the four lackeys, with a precision
quite military, took off their laced hats and ranged
themselves behind it.
“Oh, Monsieur d’Artagnan!” said Mousqueton, “why can I not
embrace your knees? But I have become impotent, as you see.”
“Dame! my dear Mousqueton, it is age.”
“No, monsieur, it is not age; it is infirmities —
troubles.”
“Troubles! you, Mousqueton?” said D’Artagnan making the tour